AF - After the Fall
by Harriet Telcontar Holmes
Summary: How did Sherlock think his friends were going to deal with his supposed suicide? Badly, that's how. Might grow into something more... Getting to be a bit of a character study of Sherlock and the people closest to him.
1. John Watson

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and if I did, we'd all have seen season 3 by now.

And I'm not a native speaker of English, so please forgive any mistakes

**A.F – After the Fall**

John Watson was numb. He had been numb for almost three weeks now, ever since he had been forced to watch his best friend plummet to his death.

Well, that wasn't quite true. The first thing he had felt was a sharp pain that ripped right through his body and pierced his heart with a force that had sent him reeling. After that, his mind had started to form a near-impenetrable shell around itself to protect what was left of the man John Watson had been B.F. – Before the Fall.

That man was still there somewhere and sometimes, if you looked really hard and caught him at the right moment, you could see a glimpse of his old spirit shining through. But after less than a second, he would remember and the mask would fall into place again.

Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade had tried to get him to socialize again and even Mycroft had paid him a visit to "check up on him". All he had received from John had been an icy glare and an equally frosty "Get out". Maybe one day John would be able to forgive Mycroft the role he had played in his brother's death, but that was going to take a long time.

The other three, even Lestrade, in spite of his own involvement in the events leading up to Sherlock's death, had been treated more gently, but no less firmly. John just didn't see the point.

He had been so alone when he had come to London after being invalided home from Afghanistan and hadn't thought he might never recover from his limp, even though he knew perfectly well that it was psychosomatic.

Mere weeks later he had met Sherlock and the day after that, the limp had gone. Mycroft had been right. John hadn't been haunted by the war, he missed it. Sherlock gave him that excitement and adventure he yearned for. Occasionally John had even been awarded a glimpse into the detective's heart as well as his great mind. All of this was more than enough for John and made everything he put up with from Sherlock, be it the body parts in the fridge, the violin playing at three in the morning or just the man's own irascibility and impatience with people he considered intellectually below him. Which was more than 99% of the population.

In spite of all his failings – and John would be the first to admit that there were many – Sherlock was still the best and the wisest man he had ever known or ever would know.

Because, no matter what the papers said, no matter what Sherlock himself had said during his last phone call, John would never believe it.

He had been there when Sherlock had solved the cases Rich Brook a.k.a. Moriarty had claimed Sherlock had organized himself. He knew that Sherlock's genius had been real. Mycroft was living proof that such genius ran in the family and both brothers had had it in spades.

But, unlike Mycroft, Sherlock had been driven by his need to escape the mundane. Yes, he may well have had the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, but both practices were too theoretical. Sherlock had been the kind of person who needed the results of his work to be seen, if not by the public, then by the people closest to him. _That's the frailty of genius, it needs an audience. _When Sherlock had said this, he and John hadn't known each other for much more than a day and he had been talking about the serial killer who had been giving him so much joy at the time, but even then John had been quick to agree, having a perfect example to support the statement in front of him.

But the point of organized crime was to make sure that ideally, no one would acknowledge your work, or, failing that, to make sure that it couldn't be traced back to you. If John had needed any convincing regarding Sherlock's innocence, the man's need to be admired and for his genius to be seen would have been more than enough.

So, what hurt John almost as much as Sherlock's death was the fact that he hadn't trusted john enough to tell him the truth. Why had he really jumped off that bloody roof?

John sighed.

Well, he'd never find out now, would he? But, God, did it hurt! If there was anything that could penetrate his shell like a hot knife through butter, it was the thought of Sherlock not having trusted him with his last secret.

Of course Sherlock had always been very private and had never really opened up about what was going on, let alone his own feelings on a particular matter, but John had always believed himself to be at least a bit of an exception to the rule.

After all, hadn't Sherlock freely admitted to being scared after he had "seen" the hound at Baskerville? Hadn't he said that John was his only friend? Their relationship had been difficult to describe at best, but he had thought that they were close enough for Sherlock to be able to trust him enough to know that John would never believe that it had all been a lie and not to betray his secret.

Now, however, any certainty John had had concerning his place in Sherlock's life had been taken away from him, leaving nothing but the pain of Sherlock's death and his last mystery in its wake.

And, of course, the absolute certainty that Sherlock was innocent of the crimes of which he was accused. Oh yes, John Watson believed in Sherlock Holmes and he knew he always would.


	2. Greg Lestrade

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and if we did, John wouldn't have that moustache in the teaser.  
Also, I'm not a native speaker of English, so please forgive any mistakes

**A.F – After the Fall**

**Greg Lestrade**

Greg Lestrade opened his eyes slowly, blinking a few times to get his surroundings into focus. He looked around and groaned. Wonderful. Just wonderful. He'd spent the night in his office…again.

Three weeks since The Fall and he still had to spend more than nine nights in his own bed. Some were spent on the sofa in his living room, but most nights he slept in exactly the same position he had found himself in this morning; arms crossed on the desk and his head pillowed on them. He had almost forgotten what it was like not to have a stiff neck.

He stretched his arms and winced as he heard more than felt his back crack.

"Good God," he muttered to himself. "How long's this gonna go on for?"

His gaze fell on the papers on his desk. Well, as long as it took to clear up this mess. The Superintendent had decided that he didn't particularly like Lestrade anymore and had ordered him to review all the cases Sherlock had been involved in, no matter in how minor a capacity, and to check for any inconsistencies.

Then again, Greg supposed that that was to be expected. The DSI had obviously not been too pleased to have been punched in the face by John Watson, Sherlock's best friend. Besides, supposing that what Kitty Riley had written in that blasted article of hers was true, it was a perfectly sensible precaution.

The only problem with this, however, was that Greg didn't believe her. He still couldn't get his head around the fact that he'd actually listened to Sally and Anderson! He'd known how much they despised Sherlock!

And that wasn't even because of anything Sherlock had done. Not really. Of course his attitude didn't exactly endear him to people, but that still didn't warrant that kind of a reaction.

A casual observer might have said, "Well, of course they hate him! Even he doesn't usually expose people's private lives quite as much as he does theirs!"

But Lestrade had known all of them long enough to know that what Sherlock did - used to do, damn it! - wasn't attack. It was to defend himself. Because Donovan and Anderson's loathing wasn't founded on his treatment of them. They insulted him because they couldn't deal with his superior intellect and perception. What they truly hated about him was not his attitude – although that didn't exactly help matters – it was quite simply the fact that the way he did the job they had been trained to do made them look like school kids.

Hence the name "Freak". And hence their willingness to believe that Sherlock was a fraud. After all, if he was a fake and had organized all the crimes himself, there was no need to feel inferior in any way, was there?

It was the old story. The green-eyed monster jealousy had struck again. Professional jealousy, rather than personal jealousy, but jealousy all the same.

What was it people said? "Mediocrity sees nothing higher than itself, while talent instantly recognizes genius." Oh, Greg was by no means a genius himself, but he sure as hell knew it when it stared him in the face.

And that was exactly what had happened the first time he had heard Sherlock rattle off on of his five-hundred-miles-per-hour monologues and take Greg's life apart to the last detail. Sure, he had said that Greg had a son rather than a daughter, but as the detective liked to say, "There's always something."

Greg preferred to say, "Nobody's perfect."

Sherlock had been about as far from perfect as possible in many ways, but that didn't mean that he wasn't also a genius. He had proved that the first time he and Greg had met and every day since.

"How long's this gonna go on for?" His own question echoed inside his head. "Until the mess is cleared up." Except it wasn't going to be cleared up, was it? Oh, he'd be finished with the paperwork some time. But that wasn't going to help Sherlock, was it? Because he was dead.

Gone because of other people's jealousy and malice. And he'd died believing that Greg was one of them One of those creatures who couldn't believe in any intelligence higher than themselves.

Maybe he was part of the reason why Sherlock had decided to jump? The question flashed through Greg's mind, not for the first time, but, like every other time, he flinched as if he had been struck. He didn't think he could ever forgive himself if that was true.

But he would never know now, would he? Just like he would never be able to tell Sherlock that he was proud of him or that he cared for him as if he were his own son, no matter how insufferable the detective could be sometimes.

Donovan and Anderson called Sherlock a freak. A psychopath. Did they really think Sherlock had no feelings and couldn't understand them in others? Or was it just an excuse to explain their behaviour towards him so as not to seem petty? Because his reaction to their insults should really have been indication enough. No one with no feelings lashed out that way in response to an insult, no matter how clever they were.

Greg didn't even think that Sherlock had been a sociopath. He believed that it was just convenient for Sherlock to let people believe he was, so he didn't need to explain why he never took more than a passing interest in their lives.

Like so many other things in Sherlock's life, his lack of interest in people and his reluctance to get close to them was a defence mechanism he used to protect himself. People like Sally and Anderson had followed him all his life In spite of what most people thought, Sherlock's family wasn't the reason why he was so cold. His parents had always encouraged him and his brother to live up to their considerable potential and not to regard themselves as freaks of nature, but rather as gifted individuals.

It was the people at Sherlock's school and later at university who hadn't been able to deal with the fact that he was different. The teachers were all right for the most part, but the other students…

At first it had been fine. Most of them had stayed away from him from the beginning and Sherlock had been perfectly all right with that. But some of them had decided to make friends with him. As was often the case in such groups of friends, the cleverest were the ones to do homework and such and then pass it on to the others.

Of course the task fell to Sherlock. It seemed to him to be logical. He enjoyed learning, at least the things he thought were important to know, and didn't mind his task too much.

Until he heard the others talking about him one day Lestrade clenched his teeth at the image of young Sherlock's face as he heard his "friends" calling him a freak behind his back and saying that they wouldn't have anything to do with him if he weren't so "useful".

If Donovan and Anderson and all those other people who had judged Sherlock from afar had heard this story from Sherlock's past, they would have laughed and said that Sherlock surely hadn't minded. After all, how could someone with no feelings find those remarks hurtful?

Well, the other boys' split lips and broken noses might beg to differ.

Greg allowed a smirk to cross his face at this particular thought. He had heard this story from Mycroft a few years before John had come into their lives, back when Lestrade had been the person Mycroft trusted most to take care of his little brother in the way he couldn't. Mycroft had been the one to teach Sherlock how to build a Mind Palace and how to avoid letting his emotions show or get the better of him.

Sometimes Greg couldn't decide whether Sherlock's gift had been a blessing or a curse. Many people would kill to have an intellect like Sherlock's. But maybe that was the problem. Perhaps it really was easier envying someone than being envied.

Lestrade passed a hand over his drawn face and got up. It was his free day today and he was going to make the most of it. Then again… What was he going to do?

He had nobody to go home to since his wife had walked out and taken their daughter with her. God, how he missed having Ellie around. Sure, they talked over the phone a couple of times a week and he saw her some days, but it just wasn't the same.

The more Lestrade thought about everything, the more it seemed to him as though his life was utterly in shambles, privately and now professionally.

Greg packed his things and left the office, ignoring all the stares and whispered remarks of his colleagues on the way out and finally letting out a breath of relief as he stepped out into the cold morning air. He turned and started walking in the direction of his flat. He didn't know what he was going to do all day, but he needed to get away from work, his colleagues and, if at all possible, his thoughts.

He kept his eyes low for most of the walk, knowing that if he looked up, he would see all the other people and try and make some kind of deduction about them. It had become something of a reflex over the last few years, ever since he had met Sherlock. He was nowhere near as good as the Holmes brothers, but he had learnt a few things.

First: job. Check hands, clothes – particularly shoes – hairstyle and bearing for clues. Then look for –

Greg was brought out of his thoughts rather abruptly by someone bumping into him and nearly making him lose his balance. So much for "seeing but not observing". Now wonder he could never get the hang of the latter if he couldn't even manage the former!

He picked up his pace and pulled his coat more tightly around himself. Within five minutes he was standing in front of his flat, having ploughed his way through the masses. He got out his key, unlocked the door and stepped inside, half hoping to see someone there to greet him.

But, as always, all was silent in the flat. It didn't even really look lived in any more. It had become more of a place to sleep in than a home to live in. When he got there at the end of the day…

Greg walked through the hall into the bedroom and crossed over to the bed, loosening his collar as he went. He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. He was just so exhausted. Grief, job pressure and lack of sleep were all taking their toll on him.

After a few minutes he moved to take off his shoes. His gaze fell on his bedside table as he bent down to undo the laces and he stopped. He felt as if the breath had been knocked from his body, as he had every time this had happened over the past few weeks.

There on the bedside table, next to a photograph of Greg and Ellie smiling at the camera, was a photo of him and Sherlock, taken by John during one of their unguarded moments in Baker Street. Sherlock was sitting in his usual chair, looking up at Greg, who was standing next to the chair. He was pointing to something in the newspaper Sherlock was holding in his hands. Greg was laughing and even Sherlock had a smile on his face.

Looking at those photos was like having a tonne of bricks fall on him. A few months ago he had had a beautiful young girl for a daughter and a slightly sociopathic genius for a surrogate son. Now one of them was out of his reach most of the time and the other one was…well, out of his reach as well. But for good.

Greg took the photo of him and Sherlock in his hands and looked at it, as if by doing so he could make it come alive. A breath caught in his throat and before he could stop himself, Greg was crying, gripping the frame tightly, not wanting to let go, but at the same time knowing that he had to some time.

God, his life sucked!


	3. Mycroft Holmes

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or places in the story.

Once again, I'm not a native speaker of English

**A.F - After the Fall**

**Mycroft**

The Prime Minister was talking… again. He had been going on for about twenty-five minutes now and it wasn't as though they had never discussed this topic before. Mycroft sensed irritation and restlessness in the others around the table as well, but the PM seemed to be entirely unaware of it. That or he simply didn't care. Either way, he kept on talking.

Honestly, didn't the man understand that raising the taxes so shortly before the election was as good as saying, "Oh I've got a bit tired of this job, why don't you vote for What's-his-name and I'll just go on a nice holiday." Yes, the people knew that money was short, but they also knew that they themselves didn't have as much as they'd like to.

Well, maybe the speech was covering another topic by now. Mycroft had stopped paying attention over ten minutes ago. Trying to keep these people from committing political suicide was almost as hard as trying to keep Sherlock from experimenting with drugs once he had discovered that they helped him deal with his ever-racing mind.

Right now, Mycroft couldn't really blame him, because his own mind seemed to be betraying him. No matter his train of thought started, it always emerged at the same place.

Sherlock.

People looking in on the action, even those in the front row, such as John Watson, thought that Mycroft and Sherlock behaved more like enemies than like brothers. Well, he supposed that in Dr Watson's case that might have something to do with the way Mycroft had first introduced himself to him. Perhaps telling his brother's new "very loyal very quickly" flatmate that he was Sherlock's archenemy hadn't been the best idea he had ever had after all…

But he had also told the good doctor that he worried about Sherlock constantly. That part was certainly true. How could he not?

If Sherlock didn't have a case, Mycroft feared that he would revert to his old habit of taking drugs to relieve the boredom, a habit that had only stopped when DI Lestrade had appeared on the scene. But when Sherlock did have a case, there was always the possibility that Mycroft was going to be called to a hospital because his little brother had forgotten to take any nourishment except water, tea and coffee for over a week.

Give any man a little brother like that and they'd become just as paranoid and protective as Mycroft was. Sometimes he felt the urge to simply lock Sherlock up so as to keep him from killing himself with his own stupidity.

But he should have known that it was never going to be an overdose or unintentional starvation for Sherlock Holmes. Not dramatic enough.

While Mycroft still couldn't believe that Sherlock's usually over-active ego could have allowed him to commit suicide in the first place, the manner in which he did it screamed of his brother. Quick, in front of a lot of people and giving everyone a chance to get a last look at that blasted coat of his.

The only question was why. Sherlock had never really cared about other people's opinions of him. No, that wasn't right either. He just hadn't let himself care since he'd noticed that bullies would usually stop if he didn't give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

Had it all finally become too much for Sherlock to handle? Had this slander on his name been the final straw?

It was possible, but still Mycroft didn't think that this was the whole truth. In the last year or so, one person's opinion of him had become more and more important to his little brother; John's.

And Mycroft knew for a fact that John hadn't believed a word of Kitty Riley's story. That is why Mycroft had thought Sherlock would be able to wait it out and then prove to everyone how wrong they had been and how right his blogger had been.

If only Mycroft understood why! It might be a little easier to bear. Or it might prove just how much of a failure of a big brother he truly had been.

Mycroft already knew without a shadow of doubt that he had been the one who had made Moriarty's scheme possible. He would not be able to forgive himself as long as he lived. Only one person could possibly absolve him from this guilt and that person happened to be his late brother.

In the short time they had known each other, John had been a better brother to Sherlock than Mycroft could ever have been.

The PM stopped talking and everyone in the room rose amid much chair-scraping and murmuring. Mycroft remained seated, not having any urgent appointments and very much in need of a bit of time alone. A couple of the ministers tried to approach him, no doubt to hear his opinion on the matter – even though he had expressed it many times – but the look he gave them had them turning away in no time at all.

Right now, politics was not exactly foremost in his mind. He used to find satisfaction, which was as close as he allowed himself to come to happiness or joy, in the pulling of tiny threads that enabled him to run the country as efficiently as he could.

Whatever other misconceptions Sherlock may have had about his older brother, he had certainly been right about one thing. Mycroft really was, in all ways that truly mattered, the British Government. And yes, he may occasionally have had cause to become the Secret Service.

When thinking about his job now, however, all that came to mind was Sherlock's description of Moriarty in court.

"He's a spider. A spider at the centre of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every one of them dances."

It made Mycroft wonder which Holmes had truly been the other side of Moriarty's coin.

Then again, he supposed, in the end it wasn't really the means that mattered – and Mycroft always did his best to minimise suffering, something that could not be said of Moriarty. The truly important factor was motivation. Mycroft sought to protect his country and his brother. He didn't mind the power the job gave him, but he didn't exactly crave it either.

Moriarty and Sherlock both had one key motivation. Sure, Sherlock may have wanted to protect Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson and maybe even Lestrade from harm, but the reason he chose, or rather created his profession in the first place was simple. As, indeed, it was with Moriarty.

Both would have done anything to Never. Be bored Again.

And now both of them had paid the ultimate price and left Mycroft wondering what he was supposed to do now that his own main motivation – to protect Sherlock – was gone.

AN: That was it for now. I would love it if some of you took the time to review to tell me what you think and if I should continue


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